


the last line of defense

by Kate_Wisdom



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Dark!Clark Kent, Deepthroating, Drugs, Established Relationship, In Love with Victim, M/M, Magic, Mind Control, Nonconathon Treat, Obsession, Power Dynamics, Secret Identity, Victim Agrees to Oral in Order to Avoid Penetration (But is Penetrated Anyway)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Wisdom/pseuds/Kate_Wisdom
Summary: Something’s making Superman do this. Bruce needs to find out what it is, assuming he first survives the experience.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	the last line of defense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleetSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/gifts).



He can’t remember how he got here. Which is troubling, because Batman has an eidetic memory. It must be due to some drug, or sorcery. Superman isn’t the only superhero who’s not immune to magic.

The world around him is vague and dim. Someone is standing in front of him, forcing him to his knees.

This is happening to Bruce Wayne, not the Batman. Batman would never have let any metahuman get this close, even one of his teammates.

Even Superman. Especially Superman.

All this power in the hands of one man, which could so easily be abused? Batman has taken the necessary precautions: alarms in the manor and the cave that are on a hair-trigger for superspeed, a fortune’s worth of Kryptonite laced into weapons that will deploy at a given signal. Stupid not to, even after he started sleeping with Clark. _Especially_ after he started sleeping with Clark.

The Kryptonite ring on his finger is gone. He can hardly feel his hands. His arms, chained behind his body, have gone numb. The rest of him …

His clothes have been callously stripped away - - silk pajamas, which is what Bruce Wayne wears to bed. Not Batman’s armor; no one, not even Clark, knows how to disarm the uniform’s defensive array. On his knees, Bruce is nude, defenseless, wearing new bruises to match the old scars that always surprised all of his lovers, except for Clark.

Bruce looks up at Superman’s frank blue eyes.

“How,” he manages, past the fog in his mind and the fire in his nerve endings.

“Hush,” Superman says, kindly. He slides his fingers into the sweaty hair at the nape of Bruce’s neck, tilting his face upwards.

With his free hand, he undoes the red cloak at his shoulders and casts it aside, displaying the Herculean muscles and immaculate skin last seen decorating Bruce’s bed. His phallus juts between his thighs, massive and terrifyingly glorious.

He takes hold of it like it’s a weapon.

The hand in Bruce’s hair is just holding him in place for now, and Bruce pulls himself together enough to say, urgently, “This isn’t you.”

“How can you be so sure?” The perfect lips quirk. “The answer is, you can't. If you were, you wouldn’t need to wear that ring, or to keep what you keep in the panel over our bed.”

 _Our_ bed. This can’t be magic, or mind control. Surely a drugged-out Clark wouldn’t be able to access the memories of their intimacy, or speak this gently, as if he still loves - -

The hand tightens to a fist, clenches Bruce inexorably towards Superman’s glistening, inhuman prick. Bruce inhales the thick, heady scent of it, can almost taste the moistness leaking from the tip. His mouth fills with saliva and sickness.

“I’ve let you take me, in a hundred ways, without a word of complaint. Now it’s my turn. Open up.”

Bruce complies. He can’t do anything else. Maybe if he surrenders to this, freely, Clark won’t - -

Not Clark. _Superman._

It’s Superman who presses his thumb into the corner of his mouth and hinges his jaw downward and feeds him his dick. Bruce feels himself choking as it coats his teeth and weighs down his tongue and presses into his soft palate. His eyes water. He gasps, he can’t get enough air.

“So good,” Superman murmurs. His hands cradle Bruce’s head, holding him in place as he begins to fuck his mouth, setting a leisurely rhythm that’s as bad as anything that’s happened so far.

Groggily, Bruce knows it’ll just break a tooth if he tries to bite down; in any case, Superman’s solidly-wedged, invulnerable fingers make it impossible to close his mouth. The years he’s spent perfecting every fighting discipline known to man slide away as he splutters and drools and swallows helplessly around Clark’s familiar girth.

Superman speeds up slowly; it’s as if he’s being considerate of Bruce’s limits, as if he’s taking care not to hurt him. The gentleness makes it immeasurably worse. Makes it seem like Clark’s the one doing this. Clark, who has all this power and who wouldn’t harm a living soul, Clark who lets Bruce hold him down most nights and wreck him and call it love.

Superman pushes in deeper and faster, ramming himself deeply down Bruce’s throat. Bruce gags, struggles for breath, starts to suffocate. Little bright spots go off before his eyes. He fights to stay awake, although darkness would almost be welcome, because it would mean an end at least to _this_.

Just as consciousness begins to slide away, Superman lets go. Bruce can breathe again, air wheezing back into his swollen throat. His pulse hammers in his ears. Over it, the sound of his lover chuckling, deep and low.

“Not letting you off so lightly.”

He’s lifted with casual strength, one arm wrapped around his body, the other hooked under one knee.

“Be good for me, now,” Superman murmurs, and drags him onto the pillar of his cock.

Bruce tries not to groan as Superman’s erection works its way inside him, patient and slow, opening him up. It’s raw, agonizing, bloody, Bruce’s own saliva doing nothing to ease the way.

They’ve never done this before; Clark was always too afraid to hurt him. Now, Superman doesn’t care. Or else he knows Bruce better than Bruce knows himself.

Despite the pain, or because of it, Bruce is getting hard.

He does groan when he realizes this, as his body gives up the fight and lets Superman in.

He’s shivering, he’s hot all over, stuffed impossibly full. His arms jerk behind him in the manacles, pinned by Superman’s embrace. He doesn’t recognize his voice. “You can fight this.”

“Maybe I could,” Superman says, so tenderly it makes Bruce want to howl. “But why would I, when this is what I’ve always wanted?”

 _No, you don’t,_ Bruce wants to say. But as Superman starts to rock into him, holding him steady, using Bruce’s body as the fulcrum of this twisted act of love, he knows it makes a sickening degree of sense.

Magic, drugs, mind control: these all work best by giving the subject what he secretly wants. The most deeply-buried dreams, urges so dark and depraved a conscious, conscientious mind would never let them see the light of day. Superman is almost as mentally strong as Batman is; he let Bruce teach him to build the same psychic defenses Bruce himself learned in the Himalayas from the great Shihan Matsusa. Powerful magic might have broken through those shields, but it could never have replaced them with a desire that didn't already exist, buried somewhere deep in Clark’s subconscious mind.

Bruce should try to calm himself; to bring his soul to the point of stillness advocated by Master Matsusa. But impassivity is impossible when Superman is fucking him like an automaton, smiling his benign, familiar smile that’s somehow the cruelest thing of all.

Superman shifts his grip, the only warning Bruce gets. He twists Bruce abruptly closer, and kisses him, taking that last withheld thing for himself.

Bruce has to close his eyes. Hears the sound he makes through his teeth. Knows Superman can taste his despair.

It’s a despair that belongs solely to Bruce Wayne. Batman would have been able to ignore the pain of being taken dry and bloody in some deserted corner of the world, would even now have come up with four different ways to escape. Starting with the opportunity when Superman finally reaches his climax - - assuming he still wants Bruce alive, he’ll have to pull out when he does. Batman would be able to use that. He wouldn’t be struggling and weak, furious tears leaking out of him, inching closer and closer to his own helpless orgasm.

Something’s made Superman do this: turned him into the cheerful, depraved monster that Clark was always, deep down, on guard against becoming. A monster that Batman too has always been on guard against, even when lying in the circle of Clark’s arms and watching him sleep.

Bruce needs to stop him. He’s the one Superman wants, the one he loves; he’s the only one who can find a way.

**Author's Note:**

> Most grateful to K. for the eleventh hour beta.
> 
> [Batman's martial arts capabilities](http://batmanfeats.blogspot.com/p/martial-arts.html).


End file.
